A Scatter of Scarlet
by Mech Anon
Summary: Sally Donovan did not need to come to the attention of Master of the City. Her life was complicated enough trying to hide what she was from the Metropolitan Police Services. She really did not need Mycroft Holmes earmarking her to investigate preternatural crime for the Council. She most definitely did not need an arrogant, sociopathic vampire making her his personal servant.
1. Prologue

A/N: On the advice of a review I've split this into four sections

_Warnings: Allusions to Alcoholism, Allusions to D/s, Allusions to Prostitution, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Minor Character Death, Mind control/Brainwashing, Racial/Species Discrimination, Serious Consent Issues (Sexual and Non-Sexual), Serious Illness/Injury (Main Character), Substance Abuse,_

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**Prologue**

Sally Donovan toed off her sedate work shoes and dropped her dull coat in a heap on the floor as she walked through the door to her beige flat. On the hall table sat the phone, its screen cheerfully flashing new messages. Ignoring it, she walked into the kitchen, focused on a large glass of wine and forgetting the crime scene she had just left.

As she was thumbing the cork out of an open bottle of wine, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. Assuming it was work, she put the phone to her ear as she corked the wine, thinking foul thoughts about the amount of overtime she was not getting. "Donovan."

"Hello, Sergeant Donovan," a smooth upper-class voice drawled through the speaker.

Sally froze. "How did you get this number?" she ground out.

Without a pause the man on the other end continued, "You are required at the Diogenes Club in an hour, Sergeant." The line filled with static as the man hung up. Staring at her phone, Sally wondered what she had done to draw the attention of the Master of the City.

Taking one last look at her bottle of wine, Sally walked through to her bedroom, stripping out of her work clothes as she went. Grabbing a pair of jeans and a tunic, she lingered before picking a pair of cheap ballet pumps. Worst came to the worst, she could always drop them.

Thinking longingly of her sofa, she decided against wasting more time with makeup. As a preternatural you did not ignore a summons from the Master of the City and stay living.

Sherlock Holmes returned to London to changed locks. When he managed to get hold of his landlord, he was told to take his possessions immediately and not to expect his deposit back.

He quickly secured storage for his belongings in Hackney and a day in the dark room of London Central Youth Hostel, then took his laptop to a public library to begin the hunt for flats, with a side trek to his website.

He was sending an email informing an Isaac Jefferson of who had stolen his grandfather's watch when his brother's pomme de sang, Anthea, sat next to him.

"Your presence is required at the Diogenes club at midnight," she purred, her chest angled to give him the best view of her cleavage when he turned away from his screen.

"Why should I come when he calls?" Sherlock drawled, ignoring her opening gambit by keeping his gaze forward.

"There is a case," Anthea's voice dropped. "You're a part of his Kiss. He can order you, but he wanted you to come willingly."

Spinning, Sherlock carefully eyed her. "I'll make my own way there."

"See that you do." Standing, Anthea left, her eyes once again fixed on her Blackberry.


	2. Part 1

**Part 1 – My day job already takes up most of my nights; do I really need a night job, especially this night job?**

To the normal population of London, the Diogenes Club is a myth, a name not even whispered, just an idea that somewhere the preternaturals must gather. To the preternatural community, the Diogenes club is synonymous with the Master of the City, Mycroft Holmes, and the preternatural council.

For Sally a summons to the Diogenes Club meant that somehow she had come to the attention of either the council or the Master. As an animator unaligned with either the Vaudun community or the professional animators association, she was like the majority of animators in the UK: both without representation at the council and below their notice. During her tube journey she had gone over every time she had used her powers in the last year and every case she had worked on with the Met's Paranormal Investigation Taskforce to try to find a reason for her summons. Standing outside the imposing Georgian facade of the Diogenes, she had identified three possible reasons that all felt like she was reaching. Two zombies she had raised, members of her church unexpectedly killed in a car crash without a will that the Vaudun community might have earmarked for their voodoo ceremonies. Unlikely as Christian Witches had burial rituals that made the corpse unsuitable for other religious ceremonies and most professional animators. Another option was a murder case that might have been of interest to the preternatural community, but the Master had far simpler means of getting information from PIT than summoning an off-duty police officer.

At reception a bubbly girl greeted Sally, "Welcome to the Diogenes Club. Place your holy items in the tray and sign your name in the guest book." She indicated a tray on the counter and turned the book to face Sally. Sally dropped her gold cross on the tray, picking up a gold-plated pen to sign the opulent book. The girl placed the cross in a numbered cubby and filled in a slip for her. Handing over the slip, the girl turned the book to face herself. "Sergeant Donovan, Iain will show you to your meeting."

Out of the shadows a mountain of a man melted, his skin the kind of translucent white that only comes from centuries without sunlight and his hair a vivid red never seen on humans. Even without meeting his eyes Sally could feel the strumming power and deep ache of age. "Follow," he rumbled. A man of few words, apparently.

He lead her through a winding mess of corridors up and downstairs until she lost track of what floor she was on, let alone where in the building she was, before he finally stopped in front of a door like many others they had passed. He knocked with enough force to make the sound echo through the still corridors and waited until the door opened silently. The woman holding the door open was the personification of every naughty PA fantasy: seductive disdain dripped from every pore, her posture perfectly aligned to give Sally a good view of what she could not have. The vivacity she swam in and the liquid grace with which she moved indicated that Sally should relinquish any suspicions she was human.

Walking into the room was like stepping back in time; the walnut desk, leather wing-back chairs, wooden panelling, and dim lighting could all have been affectations, but the man behind the desk in his three-piece suit was relaxed in his surroundings. "Ah, Sergeant Donovan, right on time," he drawled in the same plummy accent she had heard on the phone. "Take a seat." He indicated a low chair in front of the desk.

Sitting down in the chair she would have had to look up to meet his eyes, making her feel like a child and cementing his control of the meeting. She chose to lock her gaze on his chin instead of the air to the right of his ear as she had standing, keeping her gaze level. She could see him smirk and felt a thrill at out-playing him in this first game. Everything she had heard of the Master of the City said that he was a hard man to best, and this could be none other than the Master himself, Mycroft Holmes.

"I am about to offer you a job." Mycroft Holmes was the epitome of subtly threatening, managing to make the thought of saying no fall out of Sally's mind. "A vampire was murdered. The body found by a human and the police notified before the Council."

Sally racked her mind. The last cases that she had seen at briefing were vamp rolls, a shifter attack, and a witch accused of cursing her lover; no mention of a dead vamp. "Was it in the PIT's jurisdiction?" she asked.

"Yes, and the case was handled by your superior, DI Lestrade." Mycroft's tone implied that bad things would be happening to Lestrade. "Imagine our surprise when our contacts in the Met and Bart's informed us that the case was closed." There was a long pause while Mycroft stared down at her, and she could feel eyes on her back, as well. "If we cannot rely on the Met to protect our community, we will protect ourselves."

Behind Sally the door burst open and a gaunt vampire stalked in to the room. His skin was the ghastly pale shade that Sally associated with dead bodies and zombies, his hair dry and brittle. All in all, she thought he looked as if he had not eaten in weeks. Not the type of vampire she would want to be in a room with at the best of times; in a room at the Diogenes Club, never.

"Ah, Sherlock, right on time with an unnecessarily dramatic entrance," Mycroft intoned condescendingly. "I see Siberia treated you well."

"Get on with it, Mycroft," the new vampire, Sherlock, brusquely interrupted. Sally cringed mentally; you did not interrupt the Master of the City.

"Mon frère, can I not simply want to see you?" The noise Sherlock made indicated that no, Mycroft could not. "I have a case for you." Mycroft extended his hand to indicate Sally.

Turning as if noticing her for the first time, Sherlock's eyes roved over her hands, her knees, attempted to catch her eyes. "An animator, not Vaudun or professional," he said as he looked at her. "Police, CID, not higher than Sergeant. Of interest to you implies PIT. The only female sergeant in PIT is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan. She didn't choose to come here; you ordered her and she still doesn't understand why. The only reason you would be interested in an unaligned animator hiding as a normal in the Met is if PIT is ignoring cases where preternaturals are the victims again." Once he had concluded his examination, he looked away from her, ignoring her existence. Sally dug her nails into her palms to stop herself from calling Sherlock a freak.

"The case came to DI Lestrade," Mycroft said. "He closed the case upon receiving it."

"How much information do you have?" Sherlock asked.

"Very little. Lestrade has ordered nothing to be done." Mycroft replied. "DS Donovan will get hold of the case file and be your liaison with PIT."

Sally was relieved that all she was being asked to do was to provide information easily available to Mycroft by other means. She ruthlessly tamped down the niggling voice that said the Master would not waste his time or resources cultivating another informant in PIT, that it was a test or more was required of her than he had said.

When the PIT office had been designed, some bright soul had decided that they would need to hold vampires during daylight, so there were no windows anywhere in their area. The uniforms and old timers called the office and cells 'the mine' and the PIT members 'miners'. The office itself was the kind of dehumanising sixties building so common in the MET, with a large central plan. At the front of the room DIs Lestrade and Dimmock's desks faced their subordinates. The only person to have his own office was DCI Gregson. Being called in to the DCI's office was a mixture of a blessing and a curse: the DCI kept a sunlamp in his office that was on a timer to emulate daytime, but the only reason a Sergeant would be called into his office was for a bollocking.

To fulfil the Master's request, she would have to steal the case file from her boss's desk. Her stomach was tying itself in knots as she waited for Lestrade to finish threatening his suspect and go to lunch.

Their team were currently working on two vamp rolls and a suspected cursing. A man had accused his lover of cursing him after a fight-by fight Sally read he knocked his lover around a bit-which meant that they had spent most of the morning interviewing the poor woman. Sally suspected that she would be charged and convicted, although any preternatural could tell that the man had not been cursed. Lestrade finally bullied her into something that could be considered to be a confession, if you considered all preternaturals to be guilty of anything they were accused of, and decided to charge her.

"That's all we can do until the bloodsuckers wake up." Lestrade stood in the centre of the room. "Everyone take an hour for lunch and then get caught up on paper work. Anyone who's off tonight needs to have all their paperwork complete." He didn't wait for the team to react, but strode out of the room, probably in search of a strong drink.

Sally dragged her paperwork out and indicated that she would stay until someone else got back. She managed to fill in a form before everyone had left and she felt sure that they were not going to come back. She strode across the room and flicked through Lestrade's outbox and inbox. In the latter, underneath the medical report for one of their vamp rolls, was a copy of an autopsy of Aled Price. She indicated where she had taken it and made a copy before replacing it and grabbing the medical report. Dropping them both on her desk, she scrubbed her face and sighed. Walking back to Lestrade's desk, she began digging through the draws. Finally she found the case file in the bottom draw of his desk under an empty whiskey bottle and a well-worn case file; flicking through she found it was a closed case concerning the deaths of Iris, Michelle, and Daniel Lestrade. The woman, Iris, had previously been bitten twice and rose to be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. The Price file was fairly empty and quickly photocopied.

Back at her desk she swallowed hard. That Lestrade's family had been killed would not have been a surprise to anyone who worked under the man. Life sucked, but she had a job to do. Ignoring her curiosity she put the Price files in her bag and opened the medical file she had grabbed. A quick glance told her that there was no evidence that one of their victims had been rolled, from which they could only conclude that their victim had not been violently rolled or harmed after. She hated vamp rolls; she understood why a willing donor would want to be rolled so they would not feel the pain of the bite, but to roll the unwilling was no different to mind rape no matter how the bloodsuckers glamorised it. Especially not when you considered how often the victims were physically raped as well. As the bloodsuckers always said when you caught them at it, you can't rape the willing, but a vampire could make them willing. Without any medical evidence they would have to hope for witnesses to corroborate their victim's story, or it would be a case of he said-she said. If the victim had been white and normal that wouldn't have worried her but in jury's minds white, male privilege trumped vampire prejudice, especially when the victim was a black, female magic user. She probably knew as well as Sally did that she would be more likely to get justice through the council but she had been drained enough to need an emergency blood transfusion. By the time she had recovered enough to speak, the vampire had already been arrested and CPS would continue the prosecution without her statement.

She was off for the night so she left Lambeth station at 5pm and headed straight to the Diogenes Club. She was let in fairly quickly, just having to hand over her cross before being shown to the Strangers' Room.

Sherlock was already waiting in the room as opulent as she had expected from the Diogenes. He managed to look even more forbidding than he had last night. She stood across from him, taking the files out of her bag. Sherlock stood as she started to sit next to him. "Come on," he said, walking out of the room as if he expected her obedience. Figuring she had to pass on the files he was ignoring, she followed him with enough of a delay to make it clear she was not obeying him.

He stopped on the strand and held out his hand impatiently. Taking the files he asked, "Have you slept with the married normal yet?"

She spluttered indignantly. "Freak!" she spat out, about to turn around and stalk off.

Sherlock's arm shot out to grab her upper arm faster than she could follow, squeezing painfully. "We're going to Bart's."

Sherlock felt certain that Sally Donovan was both more imbecilic than the majority of the population and more emotionally damaged than your average animator, which was impressive given the average animator. Part of Sherlock wondered absentmindedly how her powers had manifested, what beloved pet or relative she had first called from the grave and how decomposed its body had been when it dragged itself to her? Despite Mycroft's implicit orders, she seemed to think that her only investment in this case was obtaining the files for him. He had to drag her to Bart's. When they had arrived at Molly's office, Molly had looked at him like he had managed to stomp on every social rule in the world. Sherlock shrugged it off easily. Molly was, after all, wannabe coffin bait.

"We're here about the autopsy of Aled Price," Sherlock said, making his tone just flirtatious enough to leave Molly with the mistaken belief that he was interested in her. Opening the autopsy file Sally had given him, he asked, "Is this the full report?"

Molly flushed and scanned the report. "Yes." She opened her copy on her computer. "I wanted to talk to a preternatural about some of these findings, on page 3."

Sherlock pulled Sally to Molly's desk to ensure that she could read the report, too, and opened their copy to page 3. She might have been forced on him as an assistant, but she was of no use to him if she was not informed. The report noted large, even bruises on Price's chest, arms, and legs.

"Binding spell," Sally said before Sherlock could. Maybe she could be useful after all, he thought.

Sherlock sent Sally off after visiting Bart's and headed to the resting place of Arthur Jones, a newly bitten vampire made by Aled Price. As a newbie he would surface after 7pm, so Sherlock should be able to catch him feeding. Mycroft ensured that all vampires under ten years undead were fed daily by a willing stable of highly rewarded shifters and freaks to prevent accidental killings and vampire attacks.

Arthur Jones's resting place was a cold ex-industrial complex on the outskirts of Dagenham. The converted factory was split into plaster-board cubicles and communal bathrooms. The building was guarded by shifters, to protect the inmates or the public Sherlock had never been sure. Arthur Jones's cubical was the same as every other cubical Sherlock had ever been in. A vain attempt had been made to personalise it, but the aura of hopelessness and banality overpowered everything. The Church of Life had made a game attempt to start up in London, but the first time prospective members saw the Training Centres, they quickly changed their minds.

Arthur Jones himself was the epitome of bland. Sherlock had already known that Aled was not from one of the pretty or interesting lines, but you would think he could make some effort when choosing who to turn. There had to be something more to Jones or he would never have held a vampire's attention long enough to be turned.

"Tell me about your maker," Sherlock ordered Jones, throwing a quick glamour to make Jones more amenable, as well as to find out how weak he was.

Jones rolled like a baby, making Sherlock even more certain that whatever drew Aled Price to Jones, it was not his mind or his face. "He wasn't a good maker. He didn't take care of me or Dave. Didn't make sure we got enough to eat like the Master ordered."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"He didn't spend time with me," Jones whined. "Didn't want to be seen with us."

Useless, bland, and weak; Sherlock could see why Price would not have wanted to spend time with Jones. Giving up on getting anything out of Jones relating to his maker, Sherlock moved his line of questioning to the actions of Jones and his fellow newbie, Dave. "Did you or Dave do anything you shouldn't have while hungry?" Sherlock reinforced the glamour to make sure that Jones wouldn't clam up.

"Dave and me ate his girlfriend." Jones giggled, completely rolled. "Ate and ate and ate. Taste gooood. Fizzy."

That might have been a bit too strong of a glamour for such a weak vampire. Sherlock was beginning to wonder how it was possible for a vampire to have even less resistance to being rolled than the average plod on the street. "Where can I find Dave?" Sherlock asked, dropping the power of the glamour a little.

"Gone." Jones looked like he was about to sob in a sulky teenage way that looked ridiculous with his balding head and pot belly. "The Master had him staked and burnt."

"What was Dave's girlfriend's name?" Sherlock reinforced the glamour again. Giggly high was preferable to sulky teenager. He distinctly remembered not liking teenagers at Harrow, and they had not got more interesting with 200 years insulation.

"Fawn," Jones gigged, "Like a deer, tasty."

"Fawn?" Sherlock pushed at Jones, impatient.

"Fawn Daniels." Jones murmured, the last push of power making him almost insensate. "Fawn and Jack Daniels. Mm, tasty." Jones lolled on the floor, his mouth partly open and drool beginning to drip down his chin.

Sherlock left without another word.

Over dinner, reading the case file Holmes had deemed irrelevant, Sally thought she had come up with a useful line of questioning. The body had been found by Janelle Smith, the victim's girlfriend. Janelle Smith was coffin bait well known to Sally from the preternatural clubs. She rarely went longer than a week without being on the arm of a vampire. Sally had seen her plenty of times at Casualty, swearing that her current boyfriend was a good man and had great control, that he did not mean to nearly drain her. Her exposure to vampires would have given her more insight into the preternatural world than most normals, so maybe she had noticed something at the scene that could help Sally to identify their magic user's discipline. The sooner this case was solved, the sooner she could go back to being your average member of the preternatural community, well below the notice of vampires.

Sally was not due at the Mine until 10am, and Janelle Smith lived on her way to work. She figured a quick stop and she should have narrowed the magical users down from any type practiced in London, or all known forms of magic, to hopefully one or two of the smaller groups.

Smith, like her ex, lived in Elephant and Castle. Unlike Price's luxury flat in Metro Central Heights, Smith's flat was a dreary, lifeless affair on the 7th floor in an Aylesbury Estate tower. With the desperate optimism of someone who had lived in council tower blocks, Sally tried all the lifts before taking the long trek up the stair. Every step brought her childhood rushing back. The pools of piss, used condoms and needles, gang tangs and hate-filled graffiti taking her back to the 80s. Fuck, she had hated normals growing up.

Janelle Smith needed a new door. When Sally knocked, it swung off the top hinge to hang by the bottom hinge and the lock. It was shoved upright and yanked open by hoodie-wearing teenager. "What do you want?" he asked sullenly.

"I need to talk to Janelle Smith. Is she in?" Sally kept her tone non-confrontational despite the desire to make him turn out his pockets.

"She's not up yet." He turned away and made to close the door.

"Then wake her up." Sally rammed her foot between the jamb and the door.

"Yeah, yeah." She could almost see him making yapping motions with his hands, but he continued, yelling, "Mum! Wake up, you fat slag. The Feds want to talk to you!"

Behind the door, Sally could hear another door slamming open and the slap of flesh hitting flesh. "I pay the rent, you little tosser. If you've been-" A woman yelled.

"I ain't done nowt. I said they want to talk to you!" The door was forced open and the boy shoved past her and down the stairs, spitting over his shoulder, "Fucking Fed."

Sally jumped to dodge his spittle as Janelle Smith came to the door. "What do you want?" she asked, still obviously half drunk.

"Sally Donovan." Sally flashed her warrant card. "I'd like to talk to you about Aled Price."

"Yeah." Smith reached behind her and came back with a cigarette pack and a lighter.

"You found the body," Sally began as Smith lit a cigarette. "Did you notice anything unusual about the room?"

"Look, love, I told the copper at Aled's place all this. Why don't you ask him?" Smith took a long drag of her cigarette, waiting. Sally folded her arms and tried to look like she had all the time in the world. "It was tip, right. Aled was a neat freak. And there was this weird stink, like that hippy crap they try and flog you in Camden."

"Hippy crap?" Sally asked, hoping for more information.

"Like them New Age shops smell." Smith confirmed.

New age shops meant patchouli or some variant. So the binding spell was cast by a Wiccan or a follower of the so called Old Ways, Sally thought. "Thank you, Ms. Smith, you've been very helpful."

"Yeah?" Smith sounded slightly bewildered as she slammed the door shut.

Wiccans are the largest group of magic users in the UK and when combined with Wicca-like followers of the Old Ways the field of suspects was dauntingly large. Not the most productive of meetings, Sally had to admit, but it did limit the field somewhat and would be useful to rule out suspects if nothing else. While some of the smaller African groups made amulets that a non-magical could use to bind a being, primarily for hunting and protection against wild animals, for both the Old Ways and Wicca binding spells required the witch to be present.

Arriving at the Mine barely in time, Sally slid into her chair, booted up her computer, and kept her head down. She hoped that Lestrade was too busy to notice her tardiness.

She started loading the browser and Outlook, thinking that she would email Sherlock her findings and thereby avoid having to see him again. The first email that showed was from the CPS informing the team that they would not be pursuing charges against Marian Loxley, the witch accused of cursing her lover. She breathed a sigh of relief even as Outlook froze. Rude thoughts about Vista ran through her mind and she flicked across to her email provider. Sherlock had emailed her three times, first to "bring him Fawn Daniels's case file", then informing her they would be meeting at 7pm and finally complaining of her technological idiocy, refusal to respond to email, and general ineptness as an assistant. Scowling and muttering things about impatient upper-class prats that caused Constable Brown sitting behind her to chortle, she wrote a curt email informing him that the murderer was a Wiccan or Wicca-like Old Way practitioner and that she would be unable to meet him until 8pm.

Fawn Daniels's case file was easily found. The case had been handled by DI Dimmock, who had been handed Dave Couch, a newly bitten vampire, by Mycroft's minions. She downloaded a copy and attached it to an email to Sherlock, noting that the next of kin, Fawn's mother Noelene Daniels, was listed as a magic user, before moving on to her real job. She was half-way through replying to an email arranging for her to give evidence at trial when Constable Brown wandered past.

"Your boyfriend sounds like a right knobhead," he said. "Pretty little thing like you, sure you can do better."

Constable Brown was old school, nearing retirement age, and impossible to argue with; once he had made up his mind he was unmovable. If Brown thought Sherlock was her boyfriend, he would not be moved from his position. The best she could do was neither to confirm nor deny it and hope that the latest rumour about her sex life would die quickly.

Sherlock had managed to get hold of her number and texted her to meet him at Noelene Daniels's address. Her response to his text had further fuelled the rumour that she had a new boyfriend who was a bit of a tosser.

Daniels lived in a picturesque little cottage in Epping Upland, outside of the PIT's jurisdiction but within the Preternatural Council's. She was not sure how the jurisdictions worked for Wiccans. The Christian Witches that, like many unaligned animators, she was loosely connected to, worked with the C of E parish system, using the districts and Dioceses to separate the different communities and manage internal problems. Like all preternaturals living in the London area, she kept abreast of the Council's actions and would normally have ignored the business of Wiccans outside the Met's area. But the paper made recurring references to issues of jurisdiction with Wiccans in the Epping Forest area. To Sally this implied that, like the Christian Witches, with their diocese being Chelmsford, the Wiccans were torn on which way to lean. The Christian Witches dealt by having the districts within the Council's remit look to London for representation with other preternaturals and to Chelmsford for spiritual guidance. The council reporters made it clear the area's Wiccan community had not yet found a solution to their problems.

This meant that visiting Noelene Daniels was interesting. Sally had no reason to be there as a member of the Met and Noelene was likely to argue the right for Sherlock to be there as a representative of the Council. Fawn Daniels's case was closed, her murderer executed, and the records showed that Fawn and Noelene had had limited contact prior to Fawn's death. Sherlock had decided that they were investigating a murder connected to Fawn's for the Council and that they were to treat Noelene as a witness, not the prime suspect. A plan that started going to hell the moment they stepped onto the path to Noelene's front door.

The gate was rigged with warning wards; if Noelene Daniels was home, she knew that they had entered her garden and what they were. The beautiful mosaic path rang with intention wards. By the time Sally had walked three steps, she was sure that Noelene knew she was suspicious, even as she focused instead on the Magnificat and the Lord's Prayer. "The patterns on the path are intention wards," she muttered to Sherlock, knowing that the heightened hearing of vampires would allow him to hear, but unsure if vampires could sense these spells.

"Obviously." He spoke quietly enough that Noelene in the house was unlikely to hear him. "Are they active?"

"Yes." So he had recognised the pattern but could not feel, as she could, the power of the spell hovering above his skin and making his hair frizz.

"Can you mind your intentions?" he asked dismissively, his voice making it clear that he did not expect her to be able to.

"He has cast the mighty down from their thrones and has lifted up the lowly." She spoke the words she had been running through her head since the spell activated. "Better than you can. When did you last eat?" The idea of being in a fight with a weak, hungry vampire did not appeal to her, nor did relying on his ability to control his thoughts.

"Digesting slows the mind," he waved her worries away. "The body is just transport; it's the brain that matters. The work!" He looked like a convert, his face brimming with fanatic belief, every step taking them closer to unknown danger with nothing but his faith to protect him. "I must have the work."

Noelene Daniels opened the door before they reached the porch. She waited until they stood close enough that she would not have to yell before making clear her animosity toward both them and their skill at evading her intention wards. "What do you want, vampire?"

"We would like to talk to you about your daughter, Fawn," Sally started, hoping that Sherlock would follow her lead. "We understand that it must be painful, but it would be of great help to our investigation if you would answer some questions."

"They found the vampire that killed her." Noelene's body tensed, her words became clipped, and her eyes flitted desperately. Signs of guilt so clear even Sally could see them; she must have known that they would find her. "Why would you need to talk to me about her?"

"I'm DS Donovan of the Met's Paranormal Investigation Team. Another case has come to our attention that seems to be connected to Fawn's." The moment she said it she knew she had said the wrong thing.

Panic visibly flooded Noelene and with that panic her bitter, prickly power flooded over Sally. She tried to signal Sherlock that Noelene was casting, but wasn't sure if he understood. The prickling power concentrated on her face, pushing at the eyes, ears, and mouth, trying to find a way into her. She tried to focus on herself, on fighting the power attacking her, on centring herself, shielding herself. The combination of the prickly pressure pushing, making her body believe she was choking, and Sherlock's increasingly uncontrolled movements as he fought the spell attacking him, kept dragging her out until she felt the pressure break into her. Rushing down into her lungs and up in to her mind, burning and stabbing, like drinking acid. Making her head spin and her legs shake as she hyperventilated. Attempts to slow her breathing, to take slow deep breaths and stop over-saturating her body, failed as control spun away from her.

Her body threw itself at Sherlock, punching, kicking, and biting like a maniac, the mad woman controlling her body having no consideration for it or willingness to allow her reflexes to take over and allow her to fight properly. The fighting caused more damage to her than to Sherlock, burning through massive amounts of energy with no purpose, slamming the soft sides of her fists against collar bones and shoulder blades, breaking and dislocating her toes as they slammed against shin bones. Only her teeth did any damage, sinking in to Sherlock's skin but not anywhere vital. If Sherlock had eaten or Noelene's other spell had failed her, he could have thrown her off like an insect.

Then something broke. Noelene aimed Sally's mouth at Sherlock's shoulder as Sherlock wrenched himself away from whatever mental demon he was fighting, his gaze clearing as he panted needlessly. Her teeth sank into his neck, filling her mouth with rich arterial blood and making Sherlock roar. He threw her away from him, staggering up and launching himself up across the garden, making it halfway across before falling to his knees. He looked across at her, cold blue cutting through the dizziness, slicing into her, filling her mind with cold considering eyes and the rich smell of heather honey.

She heard, cutting through the sensation of powerlessness, a body fall and then the cold blue was back, underlined with desperate need. She felt so weak she could barely breathe and everything faded to black.


	3. Interlude

**Interlude – Meet the Woman, Eat the Woman**

Sally woke up in a hospital, her mouth dry and the fuzzy feeling of a magical detox sitting heavy on her limbs. When she managed to crack her eyes open, the space and peace told her, if the magical treatment had not already, that she was not in an NHS hospital. As she groaned, she thought that at least she paid for private health insurance from the right place; this was not another favour she owed to Mycroft and his minions.

"DS Donovan," Mycroft's PA sat primly in the chair next to Sally's bed. "Well done," she said. Sally struggled to pull herself upright unaided, looking askance at the woman. "You achieved a successful end to the case within due time." The woman looked at her to make sure Sally followed. "My employer would like to offer you a position." The woman's tone became more formal and her language choices archaic. "He desires you to provide your abilities to the Council in the situation that Preternaturals are harmed and have no recourse with the appropriate authorities. He will expect your answer by the 3rd." She handed Sally a bound sheaf and left the room.

Scrubbing her face, Sally called for a nurse.

Jittery with lack of food and sleep, Sherlock slammed into Mycroft's office. "I fucked up," he announced.

Sighing, Mycroft looked up from the computer subtly hidden in his desk. "What have you done?" he drawled, his body language projecting cool calm and hassled irritation. Sherlock thought that he had managed to shock Mycroft. It had taken a little longer for Mycroft to show irritation than usual and hassled irritation is normally his front for uncontrolled emotion.

"I marked Sally," Sherlock spat it out fast, tearing the scab off. "While I was injured. Didn't realise I'd done it until she ate."

"I would suppose that she didn't consent," Mycroft dropped the pretence of hassled irritation for cold distain, "and that she doesn't know." Sherlock allowed his lack of response to be taken as a confirmation. "Then you must inform her and ensure that she understands the consequences of your actions."

On the day she was required to make a decision about the job, Sally arrived at the Diogenes Club at 6pm. She had spent the last week lying to her colleagues about why she had been off sick and who had called her in, while trying to hide that her food intake had increased by 500 calories a day. She was always starving for no reason yet losing weight without any obvious increase in exercise.

She was shown immediately into Mycroft's office, where he was sitting behind his big walnut desk looking supercilious. He was the earliest rising vampire she knew of living in London, the sun not due to set another hour and a half, and she doubted that Mycroft would allow a stronger vampire to live in his city.

Mycroft ignored her for ten minutes, putting her in the position of supplicant despite having summoned her, before finally acknowledging her presence. "DS Donovan, you're here about the position, I presume," he said, playing the role of the gentleman he must have been when he was turned. "Have you come to a decision?"

"Yes," Sally answered, feeling uncomfortable. She had wrestled with her conscious for the last week, torn between the knowledge that the preternatural community were never represented by the appropriate authorities, as his PA had put it, and her duty as a police officer. Rather than allow herself to second guess her decision, she answered quickly, "I will take the job."

Mycroft nodded as though it had been a foregone conclusion. "You will of course keep your position with the PIT," he said unnecessarily. Opening a draw of his desk he placed a Blackberry on the desk in front of her. "It is set up with Sherlock's and my assistant's numbers programed in and an email account that you may use in your role. The password, username, and number are in the document." He slid a couple of printed pages across. "You will need to read and sign the contract." Another document slid across the table. "The job provides you with a salary of £10 per hour and expenses. Private health care is provided. You will be required to give at least 4 weeks' notice if you wish to leave your employment here." The contract was fairly basic, covering only what Mycroft had said. She had signed a far more complicated one when she was 13 and just coming into her power that still bound her in many respects to the Master and his codes of behaviour. She quickly signed and expected to be kicked out of his office soon after, but instead Mycroft began talking. "Has my brother spoken to you since you concluded the case?"

"No," Sally answered. She could not think of any reason why Sherlock would contact her. The moment Mycroft's PA had offered her the job, the reason why Sherlock had worked Aled Price's case with her had become clear. He was interviewing her to find out if she could take over the boring cases.

Mycroft's manner became suddenly cold. "I apologise for my brother's infantile behaviour," he said. "Sherlock has marked you with the first and second marks." Sally looked at Mycroft blankly; she had never heard of the first and second marks. "The marks are how a Master Vampire makes a human servant." That did not clarify anything. "A human servant is an immortal servant. It requires 4 marks to make one. The first mark shares the vampire's life essence with the human, making the human stronger, more resistant to injury, faster, and granting resistance to vampiric powers. The second mark allows the vampire to feed through the servant, and the vampire to enter the servant's dreams. The third mark grants the human physical abilities equivalent to the vampire's and allows the servant and vampire to communicate mentally while awake. The fourth mark makes the servant immortal, offers almost complete mental communication, and allows the servant to draw on the vampire's strength."

The idea of being controlled by a vampire made Sally feel sick. She struggled to find a non-confrontational way to leave. "I think I need time to process what you have said," she finally settled on, taking the phone and papers from the table as she left.

Sherlock was in an alley somewhere in New York City. The case he had come for was complete and he had hours before dawn and his flight to Washington, DC. Bored, he had followed the steady decline of buildings and people to the alley where the man whose blood he was eagerly gulping had been shooting up. For $100 he had enough blood to fill his stomach, liberally laced with enough crystal meth to keep the boredom away for the time it would take for his next case to start.

Sally had come home from meeting Mycroft, dumped the document and Blackberry in the bottom draw of her dresser, and ignored them for the last week. She had managed to hide her distress from her colleagues, but in the back of her mind there was a part of her screaming as the feeling of being trapped increased. Her research into vampire marks had been frustrating. There was little said and what there was was unclear. The only certain facts she had found were that only death could break the bond. No human was known to have survived their master dying and all the vampires known to have lost their human servants were mentally damaged by the experience. She did not care much about Holmes but she did not want to have to die to separate them.

So Sherlock Holmes had trapped her, bound her to him until her death, and he had not even told her that he had done it. She supposed she could accept that it was done in a life-threatening situation, instinctively, but to not tell the person you have bound to yourself, to let your brother tell them—that she could not accept. He had trapped her and then not even cared to tell her that he could drain her of her energy, her life force. He had made her outcast in what community she had, bound to a soulless creature and in the process of becoming one herself. She was not even sure she could or should enter a church any more.

Despite knowing that Mycroft had had nothing to do with Sherlock's actions, that he had been enraged enough to lose control of his façade, she could not be around him or his people until she had processed Sherlock's actions. She had thrown herself into work with fervour, causing new rumours about her love life and the bad break up she had apparently just gone through.

US politicians were interesting, Sherlock supposed. For people who made a lot of hot air about homosexuality, abortion, and morality, they spent a lot of time screwing rent-boys, getting mistresses pregnant, and generally doing anything the general voting public disapproved of. In the three weeks he had been in the country's capital, he had dealt with four blackmail cases and one case of a Senator arranging the death of his mistress.

The cases were trivial to solve. If he had not been avoiding Mycroft's disapproval, he would have taken the missing person case on the Isle of Man that at first glance appeared to be extremely complicated. He suspected the victim had run afoul of organised gangs despite having no obvious connections to any of the smugglers operating around the island. As it was, he was bored and the person he needed to talk to would not be back in the city for another three days.

He took himself to an ATM in Potomac West, aiming to get enough money to buy blood but not enough to be interesting to criminals. He entered his pin and was rejected. Annoyed, he tried again more carefully and was again rejected. A third time and the blasted machine stole his card. Infuriated, he punched the ATM, breaking the screen. Fucking Mycroft must have cancelled his card to try to get him to return to the UK.

She had just finished a two-hour interview with a normal accusing his shifter partner of purposely infecting him, which had mainly consisted of her explaining the dual concepts of wasting police time and that a cursed shifter or their ancestor was cursed by a magic user to shift into an animal; they cannot infect other people. Standing by her desk, she wished viciously that normals could be made preternatural for just a week so they would see how ignorant and privileged they were. As she calmed down enough to flip through the newest file in her inbox, her phone rang.

"Hello, Sergeant Donovan," Anthea trilled through the phone, like she knew she had called when Sally least wanted hear from her and was determined to be as annoyingly cheerful as possible.

Sally did not even bother asking how the Master had got hold of her phone number; instead she moved straight to the important stuff. "What do you want?" she asked brusquely.

"The courier outside has your phone; the Master would appreciate it if you kept it with you at all times." Anthea's voice lost the faux cheerfulness. Ice slid down Sally's spine. She knew that Mycroft was being too accommodating. "You never know when you might get a case." At that last cheering phrase Anthea hung up.

Moving quickly, Sally managed to get out of the building in under a minute and the phone from the courier in less than five. It was packed in an envelope with a vaguely threatening note informing her that she was required at the Diogenes Club tonight at 7pm.

It was most unfair of Mycroft to cut off his access to his bank accounts; he had earned that money. To afford blood he now had to take boring cases that barely stimulated his mind. At least Mycroft had not cut off his direct debits, so his website hosting was still paid for.

He was currently hitching rides down from DC to Miami, having solved 6 cases in Florida before coming across one that would require his physical presence.

A deceptively small and lithe man was shown into the private room at the Diogenes Club she had been lead to by Iain. This time Iain had stayed in the room, a silent and disturbingly comforting mountain of muscle. He stood in front of her desk and held out his hand. "Marcus Lama, Ulfic of the Barn Wood Clan." Which was a fancy way of saying he was the head of the West London Pack.

"Sally Donovan." She shook his hand, letting him squeeze as tightly as he wanted. Animators are human weak and know it; there was no point arguing with it. "You have a missing member?"

Marcus took the time to arrange himself in his chair and removed his pen and diary from his bag before answering. "Zander—Alexander—Smith is a fairly new shifter." He handed across a print-out of Zander's details: age, address, next of kin, most of what Sally would need to begin her investigation. "He lived with three other members of the pack; Simon Ahmed is the senior member. Zander went out at 10pm, telling Simon he'd be back by 3am. When he wasn't back by 5, Simon called the bar Zander said he would be at, but the bartender hadn't seen him. Simon called around places Zander was known to go, but no one had seen him. When Zander hadn't made contact with anyone by noon, I was contacted. I gave him another 24 hours before contacting the Council."

Sally finished taking notes. "I need to talk to his housemates and his friends," she said.

"Of course," Marcus said, looking extremely relieved that Zander's disappearance was now someone else's problem. "Simon will be in the house from 5pm to 8am every day except Thursday, when he doesn't get in until midnight."

Sally noted the times and stood to show Marcus out. She called Simon Ahmed from the office and found out that one of the new wolves living at the house was struggling with Zander's disappearance. Simon would prefer it if she came around tomorrow.

Mrs Hudson and her case were anything but boring; Sherlock was revelling in the rare excitement. Her husband, a normal, was accused by the Miami District Attorney's Office of murdering six pretty young tourists. The DA was about to drop the case due to lack of evidence, which was when most spouses would begin to celebrate. Not Martha Hudson. It was at that moment that she had decided to dip into her savings and hire a private detective. She wanted him to prove that her husband was guilty of murder. It was delightfully different to what he had come to expect from the living.

The tourists had been killed off the normal tourist path, but, from what Mrs Hudson said, each of the sites was a destination for preternatural tourists. So what were six normals doing with a normal man visiting preternatural destinations? The sites were not associated with vampires, which excluded the obvious reason for normals to search out preternatural meeting points.

Tripcock Point Landfill Site stank, rotting refuse, the Thames, and the oil stench of diesel combining into a stomach-turning bouquet. The body was a contrasting tableau of animalistic and cool butchery, the throat bitten out, the hands neatly chopped off, the face beaten in.

"TOD between 12am and 2am." Molly said for the benefit of the mic being held to her mouth.

"Ours?" Sally asked Molly, turning to her.

"Know any animals with a 6cm bite radius in the UK?" she asked, stripping off her gloves and indicating that the body should be loaded up.

"Species?"

"Canine; won't know more until the expert takes a look." Molly was a good pathologist once you got past the niggling suspicion that wannabe coffin bait could be more accurately read as necrophiliac, or maybe that was the animator in Sally.

"Did the killer leave anything useful about the victim?" Sally's eyes fell on Anderson and she flicked her gaze away rapidly. Bad choice for worse reasons, she thought to herself. Pissing off a vampire that was not even on the same continent was not worth sleeping with a married man.

"Good skin care, late 20s or early 30s." Molly's tone was questioning. "I can take DNA and hope she's in the database. The eyes are still there, hair and measurements. There'll be enough to match to missing persons. If not, I think her face should be reconstructable." Sally shot her a querying gaze. "It looks worse than it is; mostly soft tissue damage. But reconstruction would be expensive."

"Thanks." Sally saw Lestrade striding gingerly onto the site. "You done?" Molly followed her gaze and nodded gratefully, picking a path that would keep her out of Lestrade's line of site.

Sally strode across to meet him. "Jane Doe, 27-32, Caucasian, brown hair. No prints. No face," she said staccato before he could say anything. "Definitely ours, throat was bitten out. The Path's going to send over her eye colour."

"Witnesses?" Lestrade asked.

"Body was found by Toby Mitchell, works on the site. Didn't see anyone, doesn't know anything. Brown's taken the CCTV back to the Mine." she answered.

"Worth doing a door-to-door?" Lestrade was leading the way over to where Mitchell sat, shell-shocked.

"Industrial area. Anyone who was here won't be talking to us," she shrugged.

Her meeting with Simon Ahmed was interesting. The new wolves struggled to deal with a human in their territory and the meeting had ended with Simon taking them for a run while she searched Zander's room. While she had gained nothing new from meeting Simon and the new wolves, Zander's room was a treasure trove. Under his bed was a pile of letters from his mother, imploring her son to learn control his problem. In the bottom draw of his desk was a cheap diary with a series of appointments with To Ženo; the most recent was the night Zander went missing. There was no address, but the amount of effort he had put into hiding any information about it and the times of meetings implied that he should not have been there.

To Ženo's website gave her an address in Belgravia and a fair idea from the subtle images of domination on the website of what they did. She arrived at an expensive house with a discrete security system that to Sally screamed efficient expense.

The door was open by a wan young woman. "To Ženo is not in. Would you like to make an appointment?" she asked.

"Sally Donovan." Sally flashed her warrant card at the woman. "I'm here about a client of To Ženo. She had an appointment with him last night."

"I'm sorry, To Ženo does not give out information about clients without a warrant," she replied.

"His name is Zander Smith, a new shifter." Sally started giving the woman information, watching her face for reactions. She had a very expressive face and had been unable to hide her recognition of the name. "He had an appointment with To Ženo at 11pm last night and he has not returned." The girl blanched further. "When will To Ženo be back?"

The girl heaved in a choked breath. "I don't know. She was supposed to be back by two last night." In the back of Sally's mind something started kicking hard.

"Have you reported her missing?" Sally asked, poking at the jumbled information that was shouting.

"They said she was an adult and I'm not her next of kin." The girl was actively sobbing now.

Sally moved to comfort her, rubbing her shoulders gently, waiting for her calm down a little. "Give me her details, sweetheart. Name, age, height, weight, hair colour, eye colour, and I'll run her through new Jane Does. You should start calling hospitals to see if there have been any admissions that match."

She gulped a couple of times before wiping her face and taking a pen and paper from the table by the door. She turned and wrote the details Sally had asked for. "I'm Kate, her assistant." She said handing over her card. Sally dug through her purse to find her own card and shook Kate's hand.

She kept the rattling thought that she knew where to find To Ženo.

Checking To Ženo's, or Irene Adler as Kate's notes called her, details against their Jane Doe, everything matched. Sighing, she took a break to make a phone call. "Kate, I would like you to call St. Bartholomew Morgue and ask if there are any bodies that could be Irene," she said, trying to be as gentle as possible but not give the girl false hope. The girl burst into floods of tears but promised that she would call. Hating that she had had to inform a family member that way, she walked back to her desk, waiting for Molly to call and confirm that they had a possible identification for their Jane Doe so she could officially question Kate.

The case was finished and the conclusion had proved far duller than the beginning had implied. The clubs were where some of the superstars of Vaudun hung out. The tourists had gone there to pay homage, engaging Mr Hudson's cab outside the clubs. He had strangled them in his cab and dumped them into the sea.

Bored already, Sherlock found himself sinking into the murky depths of Miami in search of stimulation. Following his nose, he found a greasy man in a stupidly heavy coat selling petty drugs to the locals. Wandering up he started to bring his wallet out, flashing enough fang to intimidate. The man's scent flushed with panic and he scrambled in the pocket of his great coat. His mind slowed with hunger, Sherlock didn't smell the gun oil until the weapon was pointed at him and fired. He felt the bullet hit him solidly in the chest, the force making him stagger backwards and gasp with pain. He swayed, his body desperately grasping for energy as blood streamed out of his chest. An ocean away, looking at the dead body of Zander Smith, dredged from the Thames three hours before Irene, something pulled tight inside her and for Sally the world went black. Desperately, he pulled himself up and threw himself at the dealer, his mouth fastening on his neck sucking deeply as the world went fuzzy around the edges, flickering in and out of focus.


	4. Part 2

**Part 2 – Humans against preternaturals, homosexuals, non-Christians, blacks, immigrants, Democrats, women…**

Sherlock woke up on what he suspected , from the steady thrum of an aging diesel and gentle rocking, was a freight ship, his thoughts moving intolerably slowly. He lay still, waiting for his senses to coalesce, feeling the rough metal under his fingers, and listening for anything beyond the engine. To his horror he had no sense of time or his location. From the urgency of the hunger racking his body he knew that at least 5 days had passed since he had gone to eat, but he couldn't be certain if the sun had just set or if was just about to rise. The sense deep in his bones that had been with him since he had first risen seemed to be dead and all that remain was a heavy aching tiredness and hunger that dragged him slowly back down in to oblivion.

In the intensive care unit of St Thomas' hospital, alarms screamed and a resuscitation team rushed into the room as Sally's heart stopped beating. Determinedly chivvied out of the room, Lestrade quietly vowed again that he would not let the bottle override his team's wellbeing again.

When Sherlock woke again the floor was still and he could not hear the diesel any more. He struggled to sit up, feeling exhaustion and hunger sitting like a deep gnawing ache even though he had only just risen. This time he could not even estimate how much time had passed since he had last awoken. As he was slipping back into oblivion the crate he was in was cracked open. Survival instinct tried to shove him upwards towards the invader, but his muscles barely tensed before he was being manhandled by an unknown man up out of the crate and onto a bed. He tried to focus his thoughts enough to deduce who the man was but his head spun and he did not see the other man crawling on the bed and sprawling with his carotid in front of Sherlock's mouth. With his last reserves of energy Sherlock bit down, eagerly gulping down the oxygenated blood and vaguely hearing the man cry out in pain. He drank for what felt like an age, tiredness creeping up on him with every draught, before the man was gently pulled out of his weak grasp and his eyes slid closed in the black oblivion of death again.

For the first time in two weeks Sally fought the ventilator, beginning to breathe on her own again. The junior doctor called by the alarms read her file and marvelled at human resilience, noting that her ventilator was due to be switched off tomorrow morning.

Consciousness came in dribs and drabs: blood gulped down at intervals his body clock told him were slowly growing closer together; awareness, separation and anxiety about the presence at the back of his mind; a dawning recognition of the room he was in.

Consciousness swam vaguely above her at intervals that seemed to grow closer together and brought with it a niggling connection that she wanted to fight but was too weak to even fully recognise. Until she fought to the surface leaving the presence lingering behind her and opened her eyes to a bustling NHS ward. Wiggling her fingers and toes, she lay quietly trying to work out why she was here.

A nurse doing obs looked down at her open eyes with mild surprise before recovering her professional demeanour. "Nice to see you with us again, Sally. I'm going to call the on-duty doctor to have a look at you."

They recovered slowly. It took Sally two weeks to be released from hospital, her doctors finally deciding that there was no reason why she should have become comatose. She was picked up from St. Thomas's by an overly cheerful Anthea and dropped at a peaceful, stately home in Epping Forest. The quietly vigilant staff of shifters watched her like a hawk for any sign of lingering weakness before finally letting her return home a month later. Throughout her recovery she was plagued with flashes of what Sherlock was doing and feeling, starting with glimpses of his lavish prison in Mycroft's resting place to his relocation and continued recovery in the Basingstoke Training Centre until they were both allowed home. They both fought the other's invasions into their psyches.

Returning to normal was harder for Sally than Sherlock. Once Sherlock was consistently passing randomised drugs tests and he no longer looked half-starved, Mycroft had readily released him from the Training Centre and began offering him cases within his City. For Sally returning to work required three doctors to sign her off and a meeting with the Assistant Commissioner. All of which took two months to achieve.

Meanwhile she was Sherlock's daytime dogsbody despite the distinct antagonism they felt for each other. Waking up, starving, to a full inbox of texts from Sherlock tersely telling her what he wanted her to do before he woke up became a normal part of her day. From the day Sherlock was released from the Training Centre she had steadily been losing weight, despite eating double what she would normally expect to. Mycroft's explanation of what a human servant could do for a vampire floated constantly through her mind. She couldn't feed the vampire on her own safely.

"Thank you so much for locating Ethan." Mycroft sat behind his hideously ostentatious desk, smugness oozing from every pore of his fat face as he implied with his snide tone that Sherlock should have brought the necromancer to him sooner.

"Your information was as ever impeccable." Sherlock said sharply, trying to imply the deficiency was on Mycroft's side but knowing that his tone had given away that Mycroft had scored a hit.

Mycroft smirked but eased up on how much smug he was projecting; the bastard thought he had already won. "You should have plenty of time to draw up detailed records for the trial."

Sherlock outwardly winced, "I'm sure I will be unavailable," he said cheerfully, following the pro forma script of their discussions at this point.

"Mon frère, you must be exhausted after such a gruelling case-" Mycroft began.

"Not all of us are as incurably lazy as you," Sherlock interrupted, trying to change to the old argument about legwork.

"And you will need to work on the cases here in London you have been neglecting," Mycroft continued as if Sherlock had not spoken. In his tone Mycroft managed to suggest that the rest was far more necessary to Sherlock than catching up after a month spent in Scotland. "I'm sure your servant would welcome the break from being the sole investigator for the council." Mycroft attached a wealth of judgement to the words about Sherlock's failure to adequately care for either himself or his human servant or to take responsibility.

Admitting defeat, Sherlock spat out, "How is the diet, brother dearest. Only eating twice a night must be such a trial," before spinning on his heel and striding from the office.

When Mycroft's latest prospective Pomme de Sang for Sherlock walked in, Sherlock was not sure what he had been expecting, but the grey, average-looking man who limped nervously into the room was not it. At first glance he took the man to be human but a second longer look showed the unfamiliar strength in his limbs and coltish awkwardness that defined the newly changed. The man suddenly became far more interesting to Sherlock. The shifter groups were notoriously protective of new members. The man's uncertainty and discomfort in his own skin spoke of having been bitten within the last few months, not someone who should have come into contact with vampires yet, let alone being offered to one for a regular meal.

Standing and circling the man Sherlock observed. "Dr. John Watson," the man said, offering his hand to Sherlock but remembering not to meet his eyes. John's sleeve pulled slightly up, showing that the fading tan ended at his cuffs, so his time in foreign climes had been business not pleasure. Despite the limp he was standing steadily unsupported with no sign of pain. His left arm hung stiffly by his side implying that he was bitten not cursed.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, infusing his voice with compulsion to obey to see how John would react. John's spine straightened and he took a military stance. An Army doctor, Sherlock combined the pieces with a satisfying clunk. Recently discharged having served in one of those interchangeable human wars; Afghanistan, again, or Iraq, again, where he had been changed. As the silence and proximity increased his discomfort, John's scent became clearer. Sherlock did not recognise the scent, could not even tell if he was bitten or cursed. "I think you'll do," he purred, pushing the man to comply, his mind engaged in the puzzle.

"What?" John stumbled, "We don't know anything about each other."

Ah, there was the defiance and independence he had been hoping for. "You are an army doctor recently returned from either Iraq or Afghanistan, presumably because of your changed circumstances," Sherlock informed him, wincing at the politically correct phrase for new shifters. "From your discomfort you have never been bitten by a vampire before and are only looking for position as food due to limited options. That would imply that you are a viral shifter, although normals have no understanding of shifter biology so I can't be certain." He paused, waiting for John to respond. When it became clear he would not, he continued. "I am Sherlock Holmes, a master vampire. I will be your master. I will provide food, lodgings, and a living allowance. In return you will provide me with blood and abide by a code of conduct. You will not bring people back to our lodgings without my permission. You will not engage in illegal behaviour. You will not partake of alcohol or other substances without sufficient time to metabolise it before I will next feed from you. You will not be expected to feed me while sick or injured. This is a standard contract." Sherlock pushed the contract Mycroft had prepared across the table. "I keep irregular hours, can be silent for days on end, and play the violin when it pleases me. Do you have any vices I should know about?"

John flicked through the contract, obviously distressed at the position that he had found himself in. Breathing hard, he swallowed and signed the document. "I drink more heavily than I should and have been known to gamble," he said, the flickering of his eyes suggesting more substantial issues with gambling than he was willing to admit.

"You will not draw up debts while you are my employ and any debt you have will be paid off, whether by payment plan or an advance on you living allowance. If you feel you cannot trust yourself with money, I will keep your living allowance and make necessary purchases for you." Sherlock waited for the discomforted shift before he said, "It is agreed then. You will move in on Monday and hand over all bank cards at that time. The address is 221B Baker Street. The landlady, Martha Hudson, is a witch of the Old Ways. She is not our housekeeper and you will be expected to keep your living quarters clean and to help with communal areas."

Reasons for committing crime are fairly standard, whether the person committing the crime is normal or preternatural: lowered inhibitions, the latest in a long line of grievances, or because I could. The more complicated and interesting cases are either 'because I could' or 'the straw that broke the camel's back'. More typical are lowered inhibitions. Friday and Saturday night normals go out, get drunk, and start a punch up or maybe don't take no from the pretty girl flirting at the bar. Preternaturals do the same; except sometimes Fido gets eaten instead of a rank kebab or the guy who would not take no for answer wakes up with his balls relocated. Standard, boring even. The kind of thing that will ruin your night with paper work if it comes to the Met's attention and result in a two-hour-long presentation of evidence at the council if it does not.

No copper honestly wishes for the other sort of case, even when caught in the midst of a he-said-she-said domestic violence case they know is not going to go beyond arrest, because the other kind are the ones where you work on for months only to shelve it without an answer. The two suicides that had landed on Lestrade's desk the day before were that kind of a case. Two unrelated people found in locations they had no reason to be have been, neither having signs of depression, and no drugs found in their systems. Some DCI with a Masters in buck-passing had decided that it was obviously a case for PIT and on Lestrade's desk the files had landed. The original investigating teams had carried out a comprehensive if uninventive investigation before deciding that it was not their territory and handing over to Sally and her Mine compatriots a massive H.O.M.O.S. (Home Office Major Operation System) file to trawl through, looking for any signs of preternatural involvement. The Miners also had to do the legwork of finding out if preternatural means had been used to make the victims take the pills. This was not as easy a task as the simple phrase made out: no trace of being rolled was left on a body once the vampire had released its victim and, while a witch's spell left traces on a body that another witch could identify, the Met police service still viewed having preternaturals within their ranks as tantamount to letting the inmates run the asylum. This was the job that, to Sally's mild horror, she had been tasked with. Lestrade might have been less judgemental and more involved with investigations since her return to work, but him having ideas that she had connections to the preternatural community was not good for her career.

All of these considerations lead to Sally's distinctly unchuffed response to her work phone going off at 2 am of her day off. "Donovan," she mumbled into the phone, hoping some DC had misdialled.

The cheery, "Wake up sleepy head!" from Lestrade, booming out the speaker and causing her yank the phone away from her ear did not improve her mood any. After fumbling on her bedside table for a pen and paper, she took down the address. She pulled herself out of her cosy bed grumbling foul words about DIs that worked her fingers to the bone and then called her in on her day off.

Once she arrived at the scene she knew exactly why she had been called: the well-coiffed blonde on the floor bore no resemblance to the previous victims, Jason Dreeber, a priest at a Pentecostal Free Church, or Patsy Hermanse, an aging middle class housewife and mother of five. Nor were the walls and ceiling covered with arterial blood what she expected from the case. What was familiar was the simple handmade wooden table at the centre of the room with two pill bottles sitting on it.

"Where have you got with identifying preternatural persuasion?" Lestrade asked the moment he saw her, standing up from where he had been scrutinising the body.

Making her way across the room she carefully responded. "There is no way of telling if a vampire rolled the victims." She started simple, with a fact that made the lives of detectives in the PIT significantly harder. "Witches spells leave a trace of," she paused trying to think of a neutral word, "their personal magic on whatever was enchanted. Another witch can sense that. If we could get hold of a medium, they could tell us more, but they tend to work very hard on not coming to the notice of the police or general preternatural community. And they're always a little schizoid," she concluded, deciding that nothing she had said implied a connection with the preternatural community. It was all in the text books if you knew where to look.

Lestrade looked at her hard before ordering, "Find me a witch, then."

He watched her silently until she fumbled her Blackberry out of her pocket. "Sherlock?" she asked, knowing his preference for texting. The aggrieved huff on the other side made it clear that he had deigned to answer his phone. "I need a witch who can tell if a spell has been cast." There was a long silence before she continued knowing Sherlock wanted her to prove that she wasn't being an idiot, "No smells or bells, so any spell wasn't actively cast here. It would have to be an amulet. The corpse doesn't have any bite marks, so no way of telling a vamp was involved. It's another of the serial suicides that the Master wants you to deal with," she finished, sweetening the deal and unfortunately outing where her connection was to Lestrade.

"Fine." Sherlock sighed in a put upon manner but she could hear the glee in his voice as he hung up.

"He's your equivalent with the Preternatural Council. Most of the vamp rolls we get he or his team make sure we get handed the right vampire for. They also look into all the preternatural deaths in the City that aren't listed as natural causes," she explained, trying to make it clear to Lestrade she was not coffin bait.

He stayed distant but did not stop her from taking her usual role at the crime scene, turning to ask her, "What do you make of that?" and pointing to the word written in blood on one wall.

"R.A.C.H.E. Rachel, Rache - revenge, Rachen – throat, Racheter – to buy another... Could be anything. "

Lestrade dangled a locket in an evidence bag from his fingers. "Think it's original or has this kind of monstrosity become fashionable?"

"Original." Sally winced at the massive Victorian ornament hanging from Lestrade's fingers. "Every time that kind of thing has done the rounds it has been vintage, not reproduction, that's fashionable."

Lestrade nodded tucking it in his pocket. "I'll see what Art make of the portrait."

"There's a vampire, some old woman, and a cripple outside saying that they were invited." The terminally unPC PC Brown arrived and hopefully would soon depart for the lands of afternoon fishing and being home for tea with the missus.

Lestrade looked at Sally and she nodded confirming that, yes, this was Sherlock and his team. He indicated she should bring them up.

She returned to the room with Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and the new man she did not recognise following as an unruly troop behind her. Sherlock pushed close in an effort to make her hurry up and the new man limped slowly behind. Sherlock stopped dead centre when he saw the body, making Sally roll her eyes and push him firmly out the way so Mrs. Hudson and the stranger (she guessed he was Sherlock's new Pomme de Sang) could enter. They both turned their faces and swallowed when they saw the body but she thought she saw a swiftly reigned in flash of hunger on the Pomme's face. Shifter would make sense for a Pomme, but one so new he couldn't control his hunger was unusual. "This is Sherlock Holmes, Mrs. Hudson and," she indicated each then to Lestrade waited for the Pomme to fill in the gap.

"John, Dr John Watson," he said obligingly. She saw Lestrade's mouth quirk briefly with approval from the frown that had been creasing his face since Sherlock came into sight. Maybe he had not written her off she thought.

"Mrs. Hudson is a witch of the Old Ways," she explained, taking Mrs Hudson's arm and gently leading her forward. "We just want you to tell us if magic was used on this woman."

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes and allowed herself to be lead almost to the edge of the body before she shook her head. "No, definitely not" she said. "The poor woman." She had opened her eyes.

"Don't waste your sympathy." Sherlock's voice was cutting. He knelt next to the body and lifted her left arm so her hand flopped about and the bracelet on it slid down. "Recognise this?"

"HAV." Sally said bitterly, unthinking. Looking up at Lestrade's questioning face, she continued. "Humans Against Vampires. They're a recent American import linked to the mega evangelical churches. One part bible-bashing, one part patriarchal control, one part misogyny, and all hate. They don't limit their remit to vampires."

"A modern equal opportunity hate group then?" Lestrade asked sardonically.

"Yeah. They're on a couple of Home Office watch lists. We should be able to get a look see and find out if all our victims were members."

Lestrade nodded, "Out, Holmes. If you're still trespassing on my crime scene in 2 minutes, I'll arrest you." Sherlock smirked secretively and Sally knew she'd be talking to the bastard later.

The sun was setting on what should have been her day off when Lestrade admitted there was nothing more they could do until forensics and pathology reported back. On her way to Sherlock's, Sally stopped off at a Jamaican take away to pick up the foods Sherlock liked least. If he was going to refuse to eat while on a case he could suffer the consequences of her need to eat more. On second thought she added a couple of orders of gentler dishes more suited to the English palette for Sherlock's new Pomme.

Sherlock's lip had already curled in disgust by the time she opened the door to 221b. "Has he forgotten that shifters need to eat?" Sally asked John, ignoring Sherlock's disgusted look as she dug the take away containers out and cleared enough space on the table for them. "Any chance there's safe cutlery around this flat?"

John looked slightly boggled as Sally managed to track down two forks that didn't look like they had been used for anything that had caused them to corrode, plus disinfectant to clean them, before throwing one at him. Sherlock muttered something under his breath that Sally didn't catch before huffing and crouching like an overgrown bat in the chair furthest from the table, his violin tucked under his chin. Rolling her eyes Sally asked, "Well, aren't you going to eat?"

Visibly startling John descended on the piles of food like a starving man. Between them, Sally and John made short work of eating the large orders of salt fish fritters, rice and peas, goat curry, ackee and salt fish, and jerk chicken. Once the containers were cleared back into the carrier bag they had come out of, ready to be thrown in the wheelie bin on Sally's way out, Sherlock deigned to make his way over the table, managing to look haughty and put out even in pyjamas. He looked pointedly at Sally until she handed him a file containing three A4 pictures.

"Serial killers always make mistakes," Sherlock muttered.

"It isn't the victim's," Sally confirmed and clarified for John. "The husband doesn't recognise it and neither do the closest female friends. The picture is of an age to the locket, circa 1700. The guys on Art fraud say that at some point there would have been a lock of hair."

"Which tells you?" Sherlock asked.

"Vampire: at least 300 years old, not from London. Check with Mycroft whether any old vamps have entered the City." Sally followed the data thorough to its logical conclusion, knowing from Sherlock's smirk he had a better idea and would not tell. Aggravated, she stood and picked up the carrier. "It was nice to meet you, John. Tell me if you find anything, Sherlock."

The first thing that Sherlock did upon Sally leaving was to start posting a personal in the London editions of the major papers, ignoring John's irritated muttering and clanging as he settled down to another night in alone. 300-year-old vampires rarely keep up with modern technology, so the murderer was unlikely to have heard of him. To be sure that no one would connect him to the personal, Sherlock used John as the contact name. If the locket was as important to the murderer as he presupposed, then contact would be made within the next two days. It really was delightful to have one over on Mycroft.

The same gluttonous self-satisfaction that had led him back to the drug addicts in the USA seized him. "Come here," he said, eyes boring into John, watching as realisation of what was about to come dripped over him and anticipation flooded across his face. John eagerly made his way across the room to stand by Sherlock. It was amazing how living flesh could be tricked into wanting to be fed from. "Straddle me," Sherlock told John, hands rising from his lap allow the man access and accepting his weight across his chest as John steadied himself. He allowed himself to slowly roll John, taking the pain away and leaving only a desire to please Sherlock.

Once John was settled, his pulse strumming and arousal beginning to tint his scent, Sherlock efficiently stripped him of the bland cable-knit jumper and his shirt, leaving John naked to the waist and shivering with anticipation. Sherlock's mouth filled with saliva. "Tilt," he said, tugging on John's hair to leave his neck taunt for Sherlock's bite. Drawing out the anticipation Sherlock slowly lowered his mouth to John's neck, laving the skin before biting down hard and feeling his teeth puncture the skin and releasing John's delicious blood. He sucked in greedy gulps, feeling John rut against him with every suck until he stilled. Taking his time, Sherlock slowed his sucking, licking over the wound until he finally detached. John blinked sleepily, completely relaxed against him.

Sally once she confirmed with Mycroft that, to his knowledge, no vampires older than 300 were in the city and that he would confirm the ages of any recent entrants occupied herself doing extremely useless house-to-house enquires. They had to be seen by the public to be doing something now that the red top press had whipped them up in to a state of panic, but until they could identify the vampire responsible there was not much they could usefully and publically do without tipping him off.

It was almost nine before anything distracted her from the boredom of managing a group of uniforms in a display of public presence. Her distraction came in two simultaneous forms: her Blackberry buzzed a received text at the same time as a burst of frustrated fury struck her from Sherlock. The first was easier to deal with so, taking out her phone, she found a text from Anthea telling her that a vampire named Jefferson Hope had lied on his entry papers and was weak enough to have fooled Mycroft's deputy. Sally shivered at the chilling final line; she was glad she would have no reason to go to the Diogenes Club tonight. The second distraction solved itself when Sherlock called her.

"He rolled Mrs. Hudson and John," Sherlock spat furiously down the phone. "Mrs. Hudson didn't even realise he was a vampire."

"Hope shouldn't have enough power to elude a witch," Sally replied, confused. Irritation stabbed at her. "Mycroft checked out recent entrants. Jefferson Hope matches."

"Email me his file."

"Anthea CC'd you," Sally replied. "You deleted it. Fine." She hung up on him, ignoring the irritation he sent her way and slamming her shields up fully.

After forwarding the email to him, she threw herself into being the very model of a modern Detective Sergeant, her shields so tight she could almost pretend that she had never been marked.

Jefferson Hope was a taxi driver, or so said his file, and the type of vampire that lived off normal's obsession with things that could kill them. At this time of night he would most likely to be found in the West End ferrying theatre goers around.

Sherlock leant back, musing. The easy thing would be to call his taxi to a controlled place, but that would need either the police or Mycroft's help and 221B would no longer work. Hope would not just hand himself over; the urge survive to was too strong in their kind. He caved to the lesser evil and called Sally, "You need to set up a sting. Call Hope as a fare. I need to be there."

"We're already in the process," Sally responded, her foresight irrationally annoying. It was, after all, what he had been training her in. "You need to be at 22 Northumberland Street at 11 pm."

Sherlock scowled at his watch. "John, we're going out."

John did not protest being hurried out the door, his coat barely on, merely grumbled to himself quietly when Sherlock made him leave the cane behind. Part of Sherlock's mind noted John's behaviour with approval. A needy Pomme would be a hassle.

It was still almost eleven by the time they made it to Northumberland Street and the place was positively crawling with plainclothes police officers. Across the road DI Dimmock was outing himself in comfort, playing the pretty boy for a burly man Sherlock didn't recognise. Sitting at a table in Antonio's, Sally and Lestrade looked like an excruciatingly awkward first date. Antonio showed them to a candle-lit table overlooking 22 Northumberland Street.

Faking adoring romantic interest in John while keeping his attention on the street was surprisingly difficult and it seem to take an intolerable amount of time before the cab drew up. A pretty Indian woman stepped out of the building opposite.

Everyone involved began to draw discretely closer to the cab; Sally and Lestrade stumbling out of Antoino's as if drunk, Sherlock drawing an pliant John into a lewd grope in the nearby doorwell, Dimmock and his partner beginning to distractedly weave down the street toward the cab.

"Police," Lestrade announced just as she seemed to be about to get in the cab. "Jefferson Hope, you're under arrest for the murders of Jason Dreeber, Patsy Hermanse, and Jenifer Wilson."

Hope moved as if to gun the engine, but the burly man who had earlier had Dimmock pressed against a wall moved with surprising speed yanking Hope from the cab to lie sprawled across pavement.

Moving with all his speed and suddenly grateful for his early lapse of discipline, Sherlock jumped on him. Heedlessly brushing the normal aside as he rolled Hope and pinned him until high-silver-content cuffs and blessed chains could be affixed.

"They killed my, Lucy. You cannot argue that it was murder," Hope wailed. "She was innocent and they killed her. Burned her as a witch." He swallowed repeatedly.

"How did you kill them?" Lestrade asked having the sense to take advantage of Hope's talkativeness while it lasted.

"Picked them up in my -" Hope's voice choked and he stumbled in his confession. "in my cab, enthralled them, and made them take a little pill." he harshly coughed. Something twitched in Sherlock's mind making him spin trying to place the puzzle piece in place. "It was so much better than they deserved." Hope broke off coughing again. This time wetly. "Picked that hypocritical bastard Dreeber up from outside a strip club. So much for the moral man of god." blood spattered on the ground as Hope finished his sentence with a great gasping cough.

Sherlock froze half turned away from the group as it finally clicked in place. "No!" he yelled. "He's swallowed holy water."

Hope's wet coughing became convulsive. Lumps of flesh brought up with thick dark blood. Creating a growing pool that soaked into knees of John's trousers as he worked futilely to save him until the body finally fell still.


End file.
